CHAPTER II.

A Wandering Minstrel.

If I skip through the events of the next few months in a casual way, it will be in order to avoid anything of an un-interesting nature. However, my book would be incomplete were I to neglect to give a few impressions as a “beginner” in the profession. Speaking of beginners reminds me of Mr. McC., an Irishman, one of the tenors engaged. He possessed a, fine voice, and was a principal singer at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin. However, he was keen on going in for opera, and this was his first engagement. When the call-boy shouted, “Beginners, please,” on the first night of the performance, Mr. McC. was very indignant, and took no notice. A few minutes later the boy came round to whip up the stragglers. “Sir,” said the lad, “I’ve shouted beginners ever so many times.” Mr. McC. turned on him—“And who the devil are you calling a beginner? You impudent young blackguard!” With that he put the boy out of the room with a “cuff on the ear.” It was some time before he would be convinced that he had not been insulted. He entered into the joke afterwards, however, and often told it against himself.

We commenced rehearsals at the Savoy Theatre, devoting the first week to music. These, as well as the “business” ones, were conducted under the direction of the author and composer, Mr. (then) W. S. Gilbert and Sir Arthur Sullivan; also Mr. Francois Cellier and the stage manager and conductor who were to go with us. I did not take long to get acquainted with my fellow-artistes. What particularly struck me was the class of lady and gentleman I was to be associated with in the chorus, having had such a different idea of what my coming friends were likely to be. Three of the fellows had graduated, one at Oxford and two at Cambridge. Most of the ladies and gentlemen were excellent musicians. It was an exception to find a person in the company unable to play the piano or violin well. Most of the ladies had studied at the Royal Academy, or similar institutions, and without doubt the whole of the members of the company were refined, and many well connected. I mention this for the sake of the uninitiated; such wrong impressions seem to be prevalent as to what constitutes a chorister in an operatic company. They were not so common in those days; scarcer, I mean, of course. Musical comedy has been responsible for the increase to a great extent. Yet there were four hundred voices tried for this particular company, I heard afterwards. They were the days of thoroughness, too. I found that out soon, and have since blessed the “school” I had been fortunate enough to enter. Every chorister had to sing separately, and reading from the manuscript was not always easy. The rehearsals will not interest.

What struck me from the commencement was the importance of the stage manager, better known as the producer. Perhaps stage director is more correct, although the sobriquet in the profession for the gentleman, I subsequently learned, is “The Blinder.” I have admired these men from the first. Not as men particularly (they were generally unpopular), but as clever individuals. These impressions may have influenced my career in after years. For a man to be able to rehearse all the principals, acting their parts in front of them until every gesture was to his liking, drill his chorus, teach the dancing, plan scenery and costumes if necessary; in fact, to know everything connected with the stage, be able to coach and boss everyone from star artiste downwards, was, to my mind, a wonderful piece of generalship. These men were no respecters of persons; they were oft-times uncouth, and seemingly cruel to people of refined and artistic temperaments. However, one frequently discovered that they possessed big hearts. If an artiste was ill, they were the first to sympathise and be kind. Their language, however, on occasions, would make the most ardent golfer blush; hence “The Blinder.” I have been able, to understand and sympathise with them since, but at the time frequently “kicked,” metaphorically speaking.

I believe it was either Epictetus or Herodotus who declared “Bad language is but habit, it does not attain to the dignity of a vice.”

Charles Harris (one of the old school) was once “hauled on the carpet” by Mr. Carte, after a “round robin” from some of the members of the company, complaining of Charlie’s flowery language. “Remember, Harris,” said Mr. Carte, “you are dealing with ladies and gentlemen, and I will have my artistes respected.” “Struth!” poor Charlie soliloquised (sotto voce) immediately afterwards, “I’ve put the blinking opera on with four ——’s, three ——’s, and a couple of ——’s, and now they’re not satisfied—(aloud) one would think it was a —— Sunday school.” This incident happened a few years after the period I am dealing with, but it is apropos of the old school of stage managers. You will meet him again.

Our first stage rehearsals were under the late Fred Leon, whom, had he lived, would probably have been one of our leading producers. He had the method of the “old school,” and originally started as a “call-boy” at the Savoy. It might interest readers to know that we were kept in ignorance as to our date of sailing, but were under orders to be ready to depart at twenty-four hours’ notice. The reason for this was to keep the American managers in ignorance. It was before the International copyright law was passed. Americans pirated everything. So enterprising were these gentlemen that from the opening night of a Savoy opera in the old days, there would be a row of agents in front, one taking the dialogue down in shorthand, one getting the music, another sketching the costumes, and others making prompt books, etc. The opera would be produced in New York before Mr. Carte could get a company out.

The facts that the works were not published until some-time after the production did not deter. On one occasion, I believe, the dialogue, words of the songs and choruses of a whole opera were cabled to New York, so that American artistes could commence learning the “stuff.”

As it was, we sailed on Boxing Day, 1889, on the North German Lloyd s.s. “Fulda,” and opened in New York a few days after arrival. In a week after that time we had an opposition company in New Jersey. We went to see a matinee. One could scarcely call it a Gilbertian version, although a wonderful copy, when one comes to take into account that costumes and scenery had to be faithfully copied.

However, Gilbert’s humour was scarcely broad enough for them; their Don Alhambra, for instance, was of the “low comedian” order—very low. Besides his aspirates, he “dropped a Grand Inquisitor’s tear,” and the splash was “worked” at the wings. In the opening of Act II, Marco and Giuseppe, the two Kings, were discovered, ironing their shirts instead of polishing crown and sceptre. The whole opera ran along the same lines. “Never mind about author and composer—make it go.” “Get there.” Then other American tactics were brought into play to boycott the English company. The press was evidently “worked.” The following are a few samples from the notices of New York critics. Contrast them with the biggest “slating” of a London daily. They alluded to the chorus as “Herring-gutted British choristers”; “Mr. So-and-so has little to do, but what he does he does hellishly”; “Miss So-and-so looks pretty, but as for her singling, ‘God save the Queen!’”; “As they chirp on the other side”; and so on.

There were rumours yet of another company opening in New York City, so the boycott became stronger. Mr. and Mrs. Carte came out, bringing with them some new principals, amongst others Mr. Henry Lytton, who played the “Duke of Plazo Toro,” the late Richard Temple, who played Giuseppe, and Fred Billington, who played Don Alhambra. Mr. Carte “cornered” New York’s eligible comedians. Several were engaged at big salaries who “did nothing, and did it very well.” They merely called an hour before the performances to see whether they would be required or not. “Dukes” were not “three a penny,” but were pretty much in evidence.

About the second week after arrival I answered an advertisement for a bass soloist for St. Michael’s Church choir, W. 99th St., and managed to secure the appointment. One or two brother choristers also secured church engagements. We had only the morning and afternoon services to attend, so night saw us in evening dress, singing: at what] were called “Beer Gardens,” a small kind of music hall. This was unknown to the management, and I am afraid was not strictly in accordance with the terms of our contracts. However, we were “fresh,” and saw no harm in doubling our incomes. They were merry times, and we were loth to return when our New York season finished. In fact, several stayed behind, and I believe all did well.

One, who frequently quarrelled with the management, was told he would never get another engagement. He was a jolly fellow, and we had been very pally. I did not see him again for fifteen years. I happened to go on the stage in London during a performance of the “Yeoman of the Guard,” and Fairfax was making his first exit. “Hullo, Harman,” he said. “Hullo, B——,” I replied, “where on earth have you sprung from?” I knew him, in spite of his make-up. “Sh——! I’m P—— R—— now,” he said. He had sung under another name, for principal tenor, and “got there.” They had not recognised their former chorister. The stage manager’s saying, “when God gave man a tenor voice, he took all his brains out,” did not apply there.

Principal tenors always came in for a good share of poor Charlie Harris’s sarcasm. One would think he had a special grievance against them. “Tenor,” he used to exclaim, “Tenor! It isn’t a voice, it’s a disease.” It would frequently happen that a principal tenor was a fine fellow, and a good actor, but possessed an indifferent voice; on the other hand, one would find an experienced vocalist with a gem of a voice, an undersized little fellow, very pedantic, and conceited to a degree. “Lord!” Charlie would say of the latter, “what’s his poor mother done to deserve him?” or “Where did they dig it up?” I think this is the reason why tenors were superseded to a great extent, especially in musical comedy, by baritones. P—— Barker, another stage manager of the old school, had a special aversion to tenors. At a dress rehearsal once, at the end of a big tenor song and chorus, the latter were called on again, to rehearse taking the encore. The principal tenor, from the stage, asked Mr. B. whether he thought it necessary. “What!” shouted Barker from the stalls. “Do you think it will get an encore, sir?” “You won’t, but the number will,” retorted Barker. Of course, we all came in for a share of it at times, but altogether we were very happy in our business, and outside had good times, visiting various places of interest, and playing an occasional cricket match. It was in the days of “Tammany Hall.” The boys would do the “dime” museums, run risks down the Bowery, and frequently, after midnight, visit some saloon or other and watch the gambling. One had only to tap at the door, a little panel was raised, they were “quizzed,” asked who they were, and admitted. One would find the place crowded at any hour of the night. This was the case with the majority of saloons in New York; one, to all intents and purposes, of the “ever open door.”

It was the time of the severe epidemic of la grippe, and there were also a great number of smallpox cases. Vaccination was being resisted, so pressure was being brought to bear by the authorities. I went, to a “Beer Garden” in 8th Avenue one night to hear a friend sing, and witnessed (what would not be tolerated in England) a raid by police and a couple of doctors for the purpose of examining the people and artistes, and vaccinating where they thought it necessary. It was just before eleven o’clock; there was a kind of “Ballyhooly Fair” for a few minutes, during which, with the help of the proprietor, my friend and I found an exit, and made ourselves scarce. Two girls, who were performing there, had their arms bandaged the next day, and told us they had been forcibly vaccinated. Whilst on the subject of bringing pressure to bear, I will mention an English method that did not come off, at least, not satisfactorily. It was during an epidemic at Exeter some years later; we were all asked to be re-vaccinated, although it was not made compulsory. With the theatre staff, however, the matter was treated in a high-handed manner; they were threatened with dismissal if they refused. The doctor who was “interested” in the theatre, was also Mayor of the city. A day was appointed, and the “boys,” who nearly all rebelled inwardly, had to “go through it.” The Green Room was made into a temporary surgery; when the victims came out they mustered in the property room, where they sucked the lymph from each other’s arms, and retired to the “nearest” to drink to the “success” of the operation. Doctor D—— must have wondered why it didn’t “take” in so many cases.

Reverting to our New York visit I am afraid it would take up the space of the whole volume to relate all our experiences. Suffice it to say, it was a very happy four months of holiday and business combined.

The Gilbert and Sullivan Archive  |  A Comic Opera Life

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